David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

Ice lashed across the fire, and white light bathed the woman upon the rooftops, eliciting a shriek of pain. Victor’s hope increased tenfold.

The Eschaton had arrived.

Victor tried to follow, but so much was going on, and he couldn’t shift, couldn’t look. The dagger thrower turned on Brug, who came barreling in decked out in his thick plate. Daggers flew, and they bounced off, unable to penetrate. The Watcher upped his intensity, his sabers twirling as they battled outside his line of vision. Meanwhile spells flew through the air, ice and lightning crashing together as Delysia and Tarlak exchanged attacks with the woman on the rooftop. The sound was deafening, magic shook the walls of the homes, and amidst it all, Victor felt so helpless, so insignificant.

The battle split, traveling both deeper into the alley as well as back out into the main street. Victor had no idea who was on the offensive, and who was in flight. He could only lie there, waiting, and hoping, as he found himself suddenly alone.

When he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his face, he feared it the Widow, but then he looked up into Delysia’s beautiful green eyes. Blood matted her red hair to her face, but the wound looked superficial.

“Can you not move?” she asked.

He looked left to right with his eyes as a way of answer.

“I will see what I can do.”

She reached down and pulled free the bolt from his side. The pain was intense, but did not last long. Her hand touched the wound, and he heard a soft ringing in his ears, slowly growing stronger, as she whispered words to a prayer he could not understand. When it faded, he felt a fire flood through his veins, followed by the tingling sensation of a waking limb. With it all across his body, he grimaced, nearly overwhelmed.

A soft flutter of cloaks signaled the arrival of the Watcher.

“Two fled, but it might be a feint to try to isolate Tarlak,” he said. “How is he?”

“I’m fine,” Victor said, his tongue feeling thick.

“Get him to safety,” Delysia said, standing. “I can’t lift him.”

“Are you sure?”

The priestess nodded.

“I’ll find Brug and my brother. They’ll need me in case you’re right. For now, take him somewhere safe until he can recover.”

“City…guard,” Victor said, sounding slurred, as if he were drunk.

“You saw what those people can do,” Haern said, putting his arms around him. “You think a few guards will protect you from that?”

A good point, however frightening. The Watcher pulled him to his feet and began carrying him deeper into the alley.

“Where…are we going?” Victor said, grimacing against the overwhelming sensations. It was as if a thousand wasps stung his exposed skin. The Watcher’s touch was like fire.

“To be honest,” said the Watcher. “I don’t have a clue. But anywhere’s better than here.”

Victor felt his legs regaining strength, and he worked them as best he could so they might move faster. The Watcher’s eyes constantly scanned the environment about them, both rooftop and street. If one of the attackers returned, they’d be in a sore spot for sure. After a moment, he shook his head, then pulled them back around.

“Never mind,” he said. “I have a better idea.”

The Watcher carried him to the building that the attackers had been hiding in, pulling him in through the busted door. Inside was a meager home. Bodies lay about, brutally slaughtered. Victor let out a gasp at the sight. Even children, cut down and left to die, all so they might wait in ambush. The Watcher said nothing about it, but the rage rolled off of him like a physical presence.

“Who are they?” Victor asked as the Watcher pulled him into the next room, where only a single body, that of a woman, lay facedown on the floor.

“A family in the wrong place at the wrong time,” was his bitter response.

“I mean their murderers.”

The Watcher helped him sit in a corner, then turned to the woman’s body.

“They’re a group of mercenaries known as the Bloodcrafts,” the Watcher said. “Now give me a moment.”

The Watcher dragged the body out to be with the others, then came back in and leaned against the opposite wall. Victor studied him, finally noticing the blood pooling at his side.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“It’s an old wound,” the Watcher said. He shifted so that the blood was hidden by a cloak. “It’s nothing. I can endure worse. What of you?”

“Starting to feel like myself. A child could probably beat me at fisticuffs, though.”

The Watcher looked back at the door, and Victor could tell he wanted to be with the rest of his friends. Victor’s guilt grew. A trap laid for him, an innocent family dead, the Eschaton fighting, perhaps even dying, and all for what reason?

When the Watcher turned on him suddenly, his guilt magnified tenfold.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “You’ve driven this city insane, infected it with your own madness. What’s going on, Victor? Attempts on my life, yours, the Trifect…is it all worth it? For your pride? Your attempts at power? I had this city under control. ”

“Control?” Victor laughed. “Control? If you say so, but that’s not what I saw.”

“What do you know of Veldaren? You’re an outsider, some foreign born…”

“No!” Victor shook his head, and he forced himself to sit up. “No, this is my home, Watcher. I was born here, raised here. It was the thief war that drove us out. It destroyed everything I had, Watcher, everything. You know nothing, and I won’t dare let you disgrace me so.”

The Watcher fell silent, and he resumed scanning outside the building, as if unwilling to speak. The silence wore on Victor, and when the Watcher returned to the room, he did his best to push away his anger.

“I don’t know how old you were,” Victor said, gesturing toward his hidden face. “For all I know you were a child, or an elderly man even then. Do you remember when the thief war started? That first night was the worst. The Trifect had bargained and bartered for months, trying to establish certain boundaries-rules of engagement, you might say. They were fools to have done so, and because of that, all of Veldaren paid the cost. My mother and father heard of Leon’s failed attempt to kill Thren and knew everything was about to go to pieces. We tried to flee, the three of us, our belongings crammed into a coach.”

Victor sighed, and a shudder ran through him.

“The streets were chaos,” he said. “Every single guild rose up, determined to shock and cower the city into submission. Mercenaries ran about, with hardly any orders beyond killing anyone they caught looting or vandalizing. I watched from the window of our coach. Buildings aflame, people screaming. And they hated us for it, the lowborn folk of this city. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. We had failed them. With all our wealth, all our power, we had failed to prevent the carnage. My family is not part of the Trifect, but we had dealings with them, we visited their homes and we basked in the light of their coin. To Veldaren, we were just like them. They blocked our horses, flung stones, and screamed a thousand curses as we tried to flee.”

The Watcher shifted, pulling his cloak tighter about him.

“I was just a child, but I do remember,” he said. “It was on that night my older brother died.”

Victor grunted, rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.

“Nearly everyone lost someone that day, and the commoners released that anger upon us. I still remember my father pulling me back from the window, telling me to ignore them. ‘That isn’t them,’ he told me. ‘That is their fear talking, their sorrow, their anguish. Don’t hate them for it. We are as much to blame as they’.”